Date sent: Sun, 7 Dec 1997 17:27:39 -0800 (PST) From: Andrea Lacuesta Subject: "The Third Law" - submission! Title: "The Third Law" Author: P. Lacuesta E-Mail: aprlacuesta@yahoo.com Rating: PG Category: SRA Spoilers: Anasazi, Pusher Keywords: Mulder-Scully romance. Sappy! Sappy! Sappy! Summary: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. DISCLAIMER: Modell, Scully, and Mulder do not belong to me. They belong to Chris Carter, to Twentieth-Century Fox, and to Ten-Thirteen Productions. (In my best Cher imitation: Like, *duh*!) (Cher as in "Clueless," not the person Cher. What-*ever*.....) Hi again! Another story... It's a missing scene in Pusher, coming between the scene where Mulder shoots Modell and the scene in the hospital (where they hold hands..... *sigh*) . This is pure sap. It seems I cannot write decent romance without my heart going all runny and seeping into my brain, where it wreaks havoc with my thought processes...... Sooo.... NONSHIPPERS EVACUATE THE AREA IMMEDIATELY. Believe me, this is for your own good. Thanks to my dad, as usual, my mom, my perpetually irritating but lovable (umm.... well, just barely ;) brothers, to Pamela, Amy, and Nicolette for being such good cyber-friends, to everyone at Gossamer (hi! :), particularly Adam Lee and Chael Hall, for helping me out with my author urges, to all the X-Files fanfic-writers out there who never fail to inspire me and fill my head with all sorts of fun stuff, thus blocking out the hated math formulas ;), and, of course, to God and all the good People Up There for helping me out with my life. You don't have to be Catholic like Scully and me to know His worth in your life. Special Dedication: To Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman, who I met in the beautiful world of the DragonLance saga that they so skillfully painted. You are definitely two of the BEST writers in the world!! You taught me everything I know... *sniff sniff* I'm recruiting everyone to go off and read GreenFish and Vickie Moseley's great stories! My enthusiastic suggestions: the "Lovecalls" series by GreenFish, and "The Temp" by Vickie M. (Also by Vickie Moseley, in tandem with Summer: the "Open Book" series. Fabbo, as the British would say.) Read 'em and weep. Really hope everyone likes this!! If you like it, and if you don't, please e-mail me!! I'm at aprlacuesta@yahoo.com . I'm awfully lonely down here, and I would appreciate any and all comments, suggestions, corrections, marriage proposals, grocery lists, and even flames. Merry Christmas (or Happy Hannukah -- whichever applies :) and a Happy New Year to all of you! The X-Files rule as always!! :D Okay, okay, this is getting far too long.... Bon appetit! x x x THE THIRD LAW by P. Lacuesta The shrill bell pierced the silence. FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder started, his shaking finger easing on the trigger of the gun for the merest moment. Concentration broken, Robert Patrick "Pusher" Modell looked up irritably -- and gasped as the tall, sweat-bathed man before him turned and pumped a bullet into his heart, not six inches away. All of a sudden the hall was flooded with shouting SWAT team members, pounding through and into the little hospital room. FBI Special Agent Dana Scully clung to the wall, breathing hard, feeling her heart pound madly in her chest, forgotten in the commotion as the SWAT members administered to Modell. Finally Scully managed to pull herself together and walk, slowly, to where her partner stood, staring shocked at the fallen Modell, the gun shivering in his hand. He held it out to her without turning toward her, then sank into a chair. As she reached out and took the gun from him, she realized that she herself was trembling violently from head to foot. Adrenaline, some disembodied, disconnected voice whispered inanely. Gets rushed all throughout your system then hangs around afterward turning sour. "Mulder?" she said gently. Even her voice was shaking. At her gentle, hesitant touch on his arm Mulder flinched, violently -- Scully's heart tightened -- and turned his head. For a moment he only looked up at her from where he sat, in the chair where Pusher had mesmerized him nearly into shooting both himself and his partner. His gray-hazel eyes were turning darker and darker, rapidly filling with shocked, numb tears. And then he was weeping, harsh, silent, agonizing sobs against the cold grainy hardness of her bullet-proof vest. Unable to speak past the tightness in her chest and the lump in her throat, Scully stroked his hair soothingly, her own hands shaking, her hot salt tears making warm wet stains on her vest, on her hands, on his silken hair. Scully bit her lip impatiently at the red traffic light as the police car slowed to a stop. She glanced at the man sitting in the back seat with her, huddled against the door. He'd put as much physical space as was possible between them the moment they'd gotten in the car. It hurt. Mulder hadn't moved or spoken in the last twenty minutes since they'd left Fairfax Mercy Hospital. He sat wordlessly in the corner of the seat, eyes open but not meeting her gaze, simply staring blankly. They were slightly glazed and a deep, murky gray, the way they were when he was troubled, thinking very deeply, or happily roasting himself over a slow fire of self-hatred in his mind. She'd attempted to talk to him, draw him out of his funk, but he resisted her -- answering in dull, flat monosyllables, if at all. Several times she caught him wincing at her touch. "Damn it, Mulder," she whispered angrily as she stared out the window, "don't do this!" She knew him well enough to know that at this moment he was going through his usual Angst mode -- bitter self-recrimination, regret, a miles-long list of "if-only"s. If only he'd been this, if only he'd done that.... It's over now, Mulder. You can't help the past. But you can still help the present. The police officer who was driving them home kept to himself, mostly -- singing quietly to himself, snatches of inane songs, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel... what was his name again? Goodness she couldn't even remember the-- Hick- man, or Heinem or something like that. "We're here," the guy suddenly said. Scully blinked, startled out of her reverie. With an almost guilty start she realized she had been staring at Mulder all this time.She looked up at Mulder's apartment building, looming up before the car. She realized belatedly that it had begun to drizzle. How dramatic, she thought dryly. Looking at Mulder, he didn't seem to have heard what the police officer had said -- Heinbeck or whoever he was. Reaching out almost hesitantly, Scully touched Mulder's arm. "Mulder?" she said softly. "You're home." She ventured a smile. "Wake up." He stirred himself then, and looked dazedly up at her. After a confused moment, it registered. He nodded wordlessly and made to leave the car except that Scully suddenly caught hold of his arm. She looked at him in concern. "You've got a fever." He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. "I'm fine." "Come back down here," she said, clearing her throat, her voice a little stronger. With a little grumbling sigh he leaned over to her, face immobile as she felt his neck and hands. His skin was burning. "You've got a fever, all right," she said anxiously. "it's pretty bad. I'm staying with you to make sure it doesn't get worse." "I said I'm fine, Scully--" She shot him a look. We have things to talk about. He closed his eyes in resignation, feeling the fever lick hot and searing at the backs of his eyelids. He hated fevers, he thought, popping his eyes open again. It hurt to close your eyes. Scully was already in motion. Weakly, Mulder opened the door as she began to hustle them both out of the car. "Officer Hickman, thanks for driving us home," she said, following Mulder out of the car. "Please tell the lieutenant we got home safely." The police officer smiled, nodded. "Anything else I can do for you, Agent Scully?" Her own smile was worried, preoccupied. "No, we'll be fine. Thanks for all your help." "Scully, I'm okay. This is just a fluke," Mulder said flatly, trying not to show he was shivering, staring blankly at the police car as it roared off down the road through the rain. "We've got to get you changed and into bed," she said briskly, guiding him through the front door. "Come on, Mulder, work with me." He'd fallen asleep over three hours ago, stumbling into bed too sick and worn out to do much of any- thing for himself. Scully worked swiftly and silently, grateful for the simple tasks that occupied her mind and kept her from thinking too much about the day's events. There would be enough time -- more than enough, she thought darkly -- for that later. Now, she changed him into fresh, clean clothes, tucked him warmly into the blankets of the little-used bed in his bedroom, and prodded him to swallow the Tempra she'd found in his bathroom. His face was bathed in sweat and in the stark white glow of the reading lamp beside his bed. The blankets were twisted around his legs thanks to his constant thrashing and moving about; every so often she had to stop what she was doing and straighten the sheets back over him. She couldn't look at him. It reminded her too much of that horrible time when he had been drugged through his water supply. The night he'd come to her apart- ment, shivering and sick, with his dead father's blood still on his hands. The night she'd watched over him as he tossed and turned in fever dreams, crying out as he relived his father's death -- and other, less mentionable traumas -- in his sleep. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath to control herself, she sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to take the thermometer sticking out of his mouth. She paused. Mulder had fallen relatively quiet again, his arms limply strewn over his pillow, his breathing fast, shallow, and harsh. He'd been through so much, she thought with a pang of pain. So much. He didn't deserve this kind of treatment from Fate. Her heart breaking, she gently smoothed back the sweat-damp hair from his forehead. His gray eyes opened, shining with an eerie feverish light. He was awake. "Yeah, but you've been through a lot, too," he murmured, his voice cracked. Scully stopped in amazement. How... He smiled at her mirthlessly. "Maybe I do deserve this kind of treatment, Scully. But you don't. And it's not Fate, it's me." She was strong, she returned his direct gaze. "We'll talk about that later. Right now, you need to rest." His meek, patient gaze followed her every move as she took the thermometer out of his mouth and held it up to the light. "Thirty-nine degrees," she said. He tried another smile. "I'm a stickler for personal anguish, Scully; what can I say?" Bad joke. She turned and nailed him with those beautiful eyes of hers, green as emeralds in the shaded light. He could feel the sheepish flush creeping up his cheeks. "What time is it?" "A little past eight-thirty. You've been asleep for some time. Are you feeling better?" "Oh, I'm just fine and dandy, thank you." She smiled. He closed his burning eyes and for a minute there was silence; then he felt her cool, soft hand on his forehead. He could smell her scent, the subtle Scully fragrance. "You just rest, Mulder. I'll go get you something to eat. It's been a long time since you had any food inside you." Don't go, he thought blindly. Suddenly he felt weak and hot and weepy, like a sick little kid. He longed to be touched and soothed by that gentle hand again. Deeply disappointed, he felt the bed rise as Scully stood up and went to the kitchen. He sighed and lay back, pulling the blankets more warmly up around him. All was still and silent in his bedroom. In the kitchen down the hall he heard her moving around, then the beeps of the microwave oven. He gritted his teeth at the shrill, irritating sound. The light was painful, and he reached out blindly, eyes still squeezed firmly shut, and flicked off the lamp. Adrift in the quiet, calming darkness, he sighed. And sank into memory. Damn his stupid photographic memory sometimes. ...the gun cold and heavy in his hand... the clammy sweat on his palms... his harsh breathing echoing in the room... Scully's wide, shocked blue-gray eyes.... Scully, run... Scully's gaze never wavered in spite of her fear and astonishment at having a gun shoved in her face. By her partner, Mulder reminded himself bitterly. By the person whom she trusted with her life. Who claimed to trust her with his. Her sweet, hushed voice, shaking with tight-reined fear, whispered in his memory. Mulder, we can end this right now... you can fight this.... Fight it, he screamed at himself, fight it you son of a... Scully.... finger on the trigger tightening single shining tear on her cheek i'm gonna get you for this, modell scully... "Mulder!" Suddenly hands were on his arms, cold wetness against his skin, and he opened his eyes, gasping for breath. Only when Scully reached out to wipe them off did he realize that there were tears on his cheeks. Sighing, mumbling an apology, he lay back again. "Sorry," he repeated ruefully. Damn it, he couldn't even look her in the eye anymore. "Don't apologize." She smiled, and flicked the light back on -- tactfully draping a pillowcase over it -- and walked to his desk where lay a tray of food. "I warmed some milk, and there's soup and crackers," she said, her voice carefully even and controlled as she carried the tray over to his nightstand. Mulder's eyes lit up considerably when he saw that she had made chicken soup. "Does it have pasta in it?" he asked hopefully. His voice was tiny, reedy, like a child's. She smiled as she helped him sit up against the headboard, propping up pillows behind his back. "I'll put some in later if you like," she said, placing the bowl of hot soup in his hands. "If you're good." He grinned at that. Picking up the spoon on the tray, he noticed with an odd sort of detachment that his hand wasn't trembling so much anymore, and began to spoon up the steaming soup. "Yum," he said, his voice still weak and broken, but grateful. "Thanks." "You're welcome," she replied from the chair where she sat, at his bedside. The silence was becoming increasingly awkward, Mulder feeling hot blood rushing to his cheeks under Scully's intent gaze. He longed for her to say some- thing, anything, to break the silence, to break this edgy, uneasy tension between them. To let him know she forgave him. And that they could still be friends. But you mucked that up, didn't you boy, Mulder said to himself bitterly, gripping the spoon hard in his hand, the soup forgotten for the moment. Mucked it all up very well indeed, all by himself. By pointing that damned gun in her face, by merely listening to Pusher's treacherous voice whispering in his head. Pull the trigger Mulder... she shot you, it's all in her file... It's payback time--- Abruptly he laid aside the spoon and half-full bowl of soup, closing his eyes and lying back. "I'm not hungry anymore." For once she was silent, not yelling at him for not behaving and not following the doctor''s orders. Not handing him the bowl back and telling him in that mock-stern voice to shut up and eat or she'd make him. Not reaming him out for not taking care of himself, in that wonderfully stern, rich, precise voice that he so often disliked because it told him what to do and to shut up and do it -- right now. He wished she would. It would sure be a heck of a lot better than this wary, uneasy silence, each watching the other warily, waiting for the next turn of events that would tear them even further apart. "Are you going to ask for a transfer?" His tones were light, almost innocent. And Dana Scully realized he was baiting her, goading her, daring her to reply in the positive in that oh-so-subtle but still annoying way of manipulating people that he had. She met his dark gaze head on -- he quickly looked away -- and shook her head. Oh no you don't, Mulder, she thought. You're not going to get away that easy. "We've worked through worse situations than this, Mulder," she said, low and even. "We can work this out." He hesitated, picking at the sheets, then spoke. His voice was low, guarded. "Can we?" She took his hand in hers then, and for the first time that evening, he was able to meet her eyes, head on. He knew what she was going to say nect, and he both longed for it and dreaded it at the same time. "We have to talk about this." He sighed. "I'm sorry, Scully." "That's not what I meant." Surprised, he looked up quickly. She held his hand in both of hers, letting her fingers lightly trace over it. This time it was she who could not look at him, but she looked down at her hands. "I know you're sorry, Mulder, for -- for everything. I know you hate yourself right now, and you wish that you'd done things a lot differently." She smiled at his startled glance and sheepish grin. "I know you well enough, Mulder. "It's okay, Mulder, I understand how you feel; and if you think you need to hear it, then I forgive you. But we won't dwell on that -- we've said all we have to say on that right now." She paused, looked at him keenly. "How did it *feel*, Mulder?" He was silent for a moment. "I guess it was like Holly said, Scully -- t was like having him inside my head. Telling me to do these things, to pick up the gun, to... pull the trigger." He drew a deep breath. "And what was so frightening about it was that all of a sudden it seemed so *right* to do these things. I was *supposed* to do them. I guess it just shows how powerful his influence was." "How did you feel, Mulder, first aiming the gun at him, then at... at yourself, and then at me?" He tightened his grip on her fingers. "At him? I felt... i felt sort of all mixed up, in a weird sort of way. I felt so glad, so happy, at the chance to just shoot the sick bastard in the heart. Point-blank, at that. It would have killed him instantly. And I felt such a thrill of pleasure in that thought, Scully -- to rid the world of someone as sick and as terrible as him. "But at the same time there was something in me that balked. I was being *made* to shoot Modell. it wasn't of my own accord. Someone else was forcing me to shoot him, and if i had it wouldn't have been my own choice. And that was like being denied the pleasure of killing someone who had tormented me and my" -- he hesitated -- "my best friend... so much." He felt the reassuring warmth of her hands in his. I'm here, Mulder. I'm still with you. I'm still your friend. His storm-clouded hazel eyes flicked up at her, almost in amazement. Thanks be, his soul breathed. "What about when you were aiming at your own head?" Scully asked, gently, her intelligent blue eyes seeking, searching him, not to probe the wounds, but to heal them. "How did *it* feel?" He took a deep breath. Silence reigned for a full minute before he could trust himself to look up at her sweet, caring face, so near to his. Full of concern and anxiety. For him. For some reason his heart wrenched at that. "Fine, I guess," he lied. "You were considering it, weren't you? Even that part of you that wasn't yet under his influence, not com- pletely... it was going for it, too, wasn't it?" Those blue eyes saw everything. It was amazing how she knew everything about him, knew even more than he did, sometimes. He shuddered, closed his eyes against the feeble light. "Yeah, Scully, I guess it was." "Why?" Hhh. "Because all of a sudden I realized all the stuff I've done, all the shit I've put you and everyone else through... All the stupid, hurtful things that I've made you feel... never even thinking of how much it was costing you, how much it took you to stay by me, to stick with me..." "Even when you don't deserve it." Her voice was low, almost sarcastic. He smiled wryly. "That's one way of putting it." "I *choose* to stay by you, Mulder. I *want* to stick with you. I'm not going along with you because you make me, it's because it's my choice to do so, be- cause I believe in you, I have faith in you. Because I trust you. You don't have anything to do with that choice that I make. And so you shouldn't put yourself through hell because of that, because you're only making youself suffer for something you never even had anything to do with." He had the gall to chuckle. Another one of the things that ticked Scully off so much and yet made her love him so intensely, so fiercely -- the man could take a stern, serious talking-to, learn from it, *and* not get into a similar snit. Now if only he could learn to do that with Skinner, not just with me, Scully mused idly. "You think that makes any difference to *me*, Scully?" "It should." She was smiling now, too, but was still deadly serious. He could see it in her eyes. "Yeah, well." He shrugged, and suddenly the grin was gone from his face, his voice once again bitter and sad and dark. "I'd rather be pointing a gun at myself than at you." She drew a deep breath at that, felt him start to withdraw his hand when he realized hers was trembling again. She caught hold of his fingers, and stared at him forcefully. Why take me back? his eyes said, darkly. You've seen what I can do. She held his hand fast, returned the dark, bitter gaze with a steadfast one. At last he allowed a small smile and relaxed. His fingers twined with hers as his gaze drifted across the room, going back in his memory. "I could hear him inside my head. It wasn't so bad as long as I kept my eyes on him... But then I turned to look at you and--" He stopped and shook his head. "And I saw the look on your face... I made you cry, Scully...." His fingers were spasming in hers, and she saw the pain in his face. She swallowed back the lump that was forming in her throat and, reaching out, ruffled his sweat-damp hair in a friendly, companionable ges- ture. "I saw your face then," she whispered. "I saw you as you were aiming the gun at me. You were fighting him, Mulder. That's why I won't quite accept your apologies -- I don't believe what you're saying... I believe you didn't *just* let him control you." She smiled despite the tears that were meandering down her face. "You were fighting him every step of the way." For a moment he struggled, hovering between denying it in his customary self-recrimination and simply admitting the plain, honest truth. She was right, of course. She'd hit the nail right on the head. He smiled. "Yeah, I-- I guess I was." "Then that's all I need to hear." A tear of his own wandered down his cheek. Gently Scully reached to wipe it away, and her tears fell on her outstrethed hand. Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed the wet spot tenderly -- so incredibly tenderly. She could hardly speak as he gently cradled her slender hand to his face, staring up at her with eyes like bottomless pools of hazel, lit and enhanced by the muted golden light. It was a powerful moment, when intense thoughts and emotions flew back and forth between them, with barely a word being spoken, as he held her hand to his cheek and looked up at her. This was love; intimacy, a careful, trusting, generous sharing of souls. And her eyes widened, a little, little bit, and she spoke, her voice broken, low, and soft, and filled with wonder; and it was the most beautiful, poetic, erotic thing he'd ever heard. "Your fever's broken." *sigh!* I told you it'd be all pure mush!! Definitely NOT for the faint-of-heart. Well, did you like it? Please tell me how you feel!! Good, bad, ugly, or too nasty for words? I'm pining away for your responses.... remember: aprlacuesta@yahoo.com !! ;D == --- Patrisha Lacuesta, X-Phile X-traordinaire! --- "Smart is sexy." - Scully, War of the Corprophages --- "Who, me? I'm Mr. Congeniality." - Mulder, Conduit Keep shining, keep smiling...